All Their Sins
by Adali
Summary: Lost on Kapila Aranya, an island of eternal night, Sanji, Nami and Zoro face all the delights and horrors of the Grand Line's most notorious pleasure town as they try to reunite with their nakama. SaNa, ZoNa, ZoSan, SaNaZo.
1. Booze

_Inspired, oddly enough, by an episode of Sex and the City, which was about threesomes. Namely, why do people have them? Which got me thinking about my OT3 - I tend to write about them together, not about them getting together. But because it's an OT3, not a OTP+1, it occurred to me that it was more complicated than what was discussed in the show... or maybe simpler. _

_Less edits than usual, but I don't want to leave it on a back-burner. And since I only seem inspired to work on this one around midnight, the editing is probably more necessary. Anyone feel like beta-ing (either just the chapter or on a more regular basis) let me know. I'm still finding mistakes in things I published months ago /blushes/_

_-Adali_

* * *

**All Their Sins  
**_Booze_

Dim lights. Murmured conversations that faded to meaningless nothings a foot from the speakers' mouths. There was music playing, but probably no one present could have identified what the song was: it, too, lost all meaning once it was released into the surreal chaos of the room. In the light of day the place would have looked faded and run-down, but in the carefully arranged lighting of the night it became enchanting and mysterious.

There were people all around, a shifting ocean of them that had a life of its own apart from the small lives of the people in it. Women in tight, smooth dresses clustered conspiratorially, their groups forming as quickly as they broke up. Men lined the walls or stood along the bar, guarding themselves against the hunger that burned in their own eyes. And throughout: couples, small groups, men and women mingling and merging until the eye couldn't separate them.

Fucking pretentious assholes. Zoro took another swig of his watery beer and wished, for the three hundredth time tonight, there was a decent shit dive somewhere in this town where the booze had alcohol in it and the bartender's rare, twisted smile was genuine. Those smiling fucks behind the bar here flashed too many teeth to be natural while watering every drink that passed through their hands. They looked like strangely painted dolls, or corpses, their teeth too white and their eyes too dark, color painted on their cheeks.

He'd been staring into his drinks all night, wishing there was somewhere else in this bloody town were a man could cop a drink. There was rum and ale back on the ship, but he didn't want to be drinking there. Luffy and Usopp and Chopper were on that ship. He wouldn't drink in front of them, not the way he wanted to tonight. Tonight was for forgetting, for erasing the helplessness and anger and horror that came from not being strong enough, not yet. One day it wouldn't be necessary but tonight, after so many weeks at sea, so many battles and victories that were just a bit too close, tonight he needed it.

His latest drink finished, he slammed the glass to the countertop, catching himself at the last instant so he didn't break it. Nami was financing his drinking tonight (although the terms of repayment threatened to beggar him _again_) but she wouldn't pay for a glass broken by his own stupid carelessness. He could see her at the edge of his vision, tucked in a corner booth surrounded by men who hung from her every word, their eyes hungrily following each of her delicate movements. They all looked rich. No doubt this was how she was financing tonight. A touch here, a lingering smile there, and their money would all but leap into her clever hands. She may not even have to pull the wallets from their rightful places herself. If that witch had wanted it, they'd probably beg to be allowed to give her anything she desired.

But that wasn't the game. The game was misdirection and manipulation; to steal what was closely guarded without anyone realizing it was gone. An admission of loss from the other party was worthless: she would wring their defeat from them with her own terrible power, or not at all. That was how she played, and it was as alluring as it was terrifying.

The hated bartender brought him a refill and in an obnoxious, falsely cheerful voice that was thankfully lost in the din thanked him for his patronage and encouraged him to enjoy his drink. He took a swallow, hardly allowing the liquid to even touch his tongue but simply shooting it straight down his throat. The minute taste was enough though: still watered, perhaps even more so than before. Disgusting. At least the aho cook never watered the drinks. He'd bitch about how good alcohol was wasted on a pig like Zoro, or how drinking too much stopped him properly appreciating the food, but he never watered it down. Asshole he might be, at least he understood the rules.

Yeah, and there was the bastard now, down at the far end of the bar. He was leaning against the counter, looking like a misplaced magazine glossy. Back-dropped by the false glamour of the bar, the bastard's real elegance was like a radiance. Even in the dim light, the man managed to glow. It was probably deliberate. The stupid fuck, that sort of thing would bring him trouble before long. Yeah, just like that: there were women swarming around him, and a few men too, trying to bask in that radiance and steal some of it for themselves. They'd tear the asshole apart given half a chance, wanting to destroy or possess or maybe both.

"You look lonely," a voice purred in Zoro's ear. He didn't turn to look; didn't need to. The woman was close enough that he could feel the softness of her body against his side, could smell her - the heavy musk of her perfume over the sharpness of sweat - even through the bar haze and alcohol. "Your friends left you." It wasn't a question; she must have been watching him for a while.

Zoro found himself fighting the urge to snort. The three of them had arrived at the same time, but not together: they were nakama, not friends, not the way she meant. They hadn't come out to be together: he saw enough of the bastards on the ship, and they felt the same. But this was the only place in town open right now, and they'd each needed a place to go.

"I'm fine on my own," he answered. Better off, even, although he didn't say so out loud. The woman hummed in a way that said she disagreed, her body moving even closer to his. Bloody annoying, that's what it was. Was there really nowhere in this town that a man could get a decent pint and some peace?

Oh fucking hell, now she was nibbling his ear. "Want to dance?" The question was incredibly suggestive, but wasted on Zoro. If he'd wanted a girl tonight, he would have gone looking for one, and she would have been a damn sight prettier and more interesting than this one. What he'd wanted was some booze, and not only was he not getting it, he was also getting some trash woman he didn't want. He'd have burned this town to ashes by now if he didn't think that would make grocery shopping tomorrow hard.

It would be bad enough anyway. The cook couldn't hold his liquor, which meant he'd be hung-over and pissed tomorrow when Zoro had to act like a pack mule and carry their ridiculous quantities of provisions. And the navigator would be kicking up a fuss about how much everything cost after splurging tonight, even if she ripped off more than she spent. Tomorrow was going to be hell, and he wasn't even going to be drunk enough tonight to make it worthwhile.

"I'm not paying for a hooker for you," a new voice, sharp and familiar, at once welcome and dreaded, cut through the din as easily as it did through a storm. For this voice he turned around.

Nami was watching him, her face strangely empty but her eyes narrowed just the littlest bit. She stood out from the background haze of the bar as though someone had outlined her in ink, their fastidious brush marking out each detail of her. Compared to her, the other woman was blurry, a defeated bag of mush in a too-tight dress. He grunted at her, a greeting or a denial or a dismissal.

"Oh? I didn't realize you were with someone." The annoying woman made it sound like it was his fault; as though he'd been inviting her or leading her on or something.

Nami frowned. "I'm not..."

"Shut it, babe." He grabbed the tangerine-haired woman around the waist and dragged her to him. His face went to her hair, as though he were kissing her. "Please," he whispered. He hated to ask favors, especially from her - it never boded well for his financial situation. But Zoro dealt with problems in one of two ways: he destroyed them (not an option) or he ignored them (difficult, especially with the lack of alcohol).

A less composed woman than the navigator would probably have rolled her eyes. "Get lost," she told the other woman who, thank god, did exactly that with an almost comical speed. As soon as she was lost in the shifting crowd Nami disentangled herself from him coolly. She didn't move away, though, just leaned up against the bar. "Not partying tonight?" she asked, her voice mild and disinterested. Her main attention was on the bartenders, trying to get one of them to come serve her without her having to try and signal for a drink like any normal person.

"Just wanted some booze." He turned back to the bar, but kept a wary eye on her. This woman was as unpredictable as the seas she navigated, and probably several times more dangerous. He might not have much of an eye for currents, but if there was one thing Zoro had learned in this world, it was that the wind always blew due-Nami. It terrified him, though no way in hell would he admit it to anyone.

She must have had some sort of power, because a bartender appeared and offered her a drink even though she hadn't ordered. A scotch, straight up: a fitting choice for the woman, he thought. She tossed it back as though it were water, then grimaced. "Watering it a bit much, aren't they? No wonder you're in a shitty mood."

"And you?" he returned. "Run out of people to scam?"

"The problem with pleasure towns like this is that people expect a good time to be cheap," she groused. "They don't bring much, and it's all in small denominations." She made the term sound like a curse. For a woman like her, it probably was. "Cheap bastards," she added. "Get one of those bartenders over here."

"Do it yourself." He realized that it had been a mistake even as the words left his mouth. The witch was giving him a look that said she wasn't sure if she should beggar him or rip off his balls, and might settle for doing both. "Right." He fixed one of the bastards with a glare and raised a hand. Dark, mascara-lined eyes widened comically, and the man hurried over, leaving behind an irate customer who had been interrupted in the middle of ordering.

The man arrived in front of them, his insincere smile still fixed in place even though he looked like he was about to be sick. Stupid pansy-assed fuck. "Scotch. Just bring the bottle," Nami told him, and the man looked like he was about to faint from terror. Everyone here was such chicken shit: they were being _nice_, and the man was still terrified. He bolted off, and returned in a matter of seconds with the bottle and a pair of clean glasses. He was still smiling, and garbling out those inane, empty well-wishes. Thankfully, he retreated to his other customers as soon as they were served, and Zoro noticed he remained fixed at the other end of the bar. It was kind of funny, but he wasn't drunk enough to be laughing about it yet.

"Drink," the witch told him. She'd poured them each a glass of the rich amber liquid. He didn't bother toasting her, or trying to savor the drink, simply threw it back. The brush of fire on his tongue told him there was finally alcohol in this, though not enough to get him drunk, especially if he was splitting the bottle with the navigator.

She'd tossed hers back at the same time he did, and with as little ceremony. "Passable," she said. It was, if only just. Despite the cook's belief that Zoro wouldn't know good alcohol if he was hit with a vat of it, Zoro did know what a good drink tasted like. But he hated going to the stuck-up places that served it; he'd rather drink in some run-down tavern where the beer was bad but at least had alcohol. Places like this one that he was stuck in tonight were the worst of all worlds.

A few glasses apiece and the bottle was empty. It was immediately replaced by a bartender, who dropped it and a pair of clean glasses off, picked up the empty, and scurried away as fast as she could. He wasn't feeling the alcohol, but his stomach had that pleasantly warm feeling that meant it had finally got some decent booze in it and would no longer have to put up with watered-down crap. Nami inspected the fresh bottle of rum critically. "Think we can drink the place dry?"

Zoro took the bottle from her and poured them each a glass. "Think we'll be drunk by the time we do?" She smirked a little at that and inclined her head to indicate it was a point well made. This time, they toasted each other before downing their drinks, each with an identical, near invisible grin on their lips. Perhaps they were sort of friends after all. 


	2. Drugs

**_Please note: _**_Unlike my previous works, _All Their Sins _has a very definite _M_ rating. While I don't feel it to be at the level where it would need to be moved to since there is not and will never be any graphic sex or similar which would cause me to raise the rating to NC-17, adult themes including but not limited to violence, prostitution and drug use will be present, along with coarse language. Some future chapter titles may be censored in the drop down menu for this reason. That said, I am perhaps being overly cautious here in offering this warning. I simply ask that you continue to read at your own discretion and that, if you are a younger reader or one who is at all uncomfortable with any of the aforementioned, you consider very strongly whether this, or anything with a similar rating, is the right story for you._

_Alright, done with my severe and serious warning. As seems to be the norm for this story, this chapter was written around midnight and into the wee hours of the morning and has, once again, not been edited to the extent that I normally do. But real life is catching up to me, so I don't have time for the double proofs I normally subject my work to, being loathe to unleash something rife with typos on the public. On a final note, this chapter is deliberately somewhat confusing, for a reason that will, hopefully, become self-evident; please bear with me until things become clearer in later chapters. -Adali_

* * *

**All Their Sins  
**_Drugs_

Theoretically, Sanji should have loved this club. It was classy, had a good atmosphere, and was a gathering place for wealthy and good-looking people looking for a fun time. Or so said the little blurb in the town's visitors' guide. But it said much the same for all the town's clubs, and Sanji was pretty sure it was lying about every single one of them. This place was not classy; the Baratie was classy, even if it had pirates and marines and cooks getting into fights every couple of hours. This place was trashy, with a thin layer of assumed sophistication that would never fool anyone who had seen the real thing. The atmosphere was shit: the music was terrible, the lighting distasteful, the staff odious and unhelpful. No one here was wealthy, although they probably liked to pretend they were so that they could impress all the other faux-riche out there. They weren't good-looking, either, but they were all using the low lighting, eye-catching (tacky) clothes, and lots of makeup to suggest that they might be. They probably _were_ all looking for a fun time, but Sanji supposed that even a propagandist rag like that visitors' guide couldn't be wrong all the time.

He'd meant to under-dress, hoping to spend the night in quiet obscurity with maybe one or two amiable young ladies and a lot of liquor. But his clothes were of good cut and quality, his hair tastefully done, and - if he did say so himself - his features regular and appealing, so that even in slacks and a plain white button-down he had a presence unequalled by anyone else in the club. Fuck. So much for not being noticed.

His dream was further destroyed by the women in the club. They weren't amiable or sweet: they were ravenous. Sanji might have claimed to be a lover of all women (all beautiful ones, anyway) and incapable of saying 'no' to a lady, but just now he wanted to tell the whole pack of them to get bent. It wasn't something a gentleman should do, and ordinarily Sanji would never be capable of such a thought but just now he was tired, and stressed, and these women resembled hyenas far more than they did ladies.

The worst, though, were the drinks. This bloody club was watering the drinks so that, even if they were still doing their job more or less to his satisfaction, they tasted like shit. It was a true affront to the craftsmen that had distilled all those enchanting bottles lining the shelves behind the bar. Well, maybe they had been craftsmen: more likely the bar had just refilled expensive bottles with cheap knock-offs and moonshine. And even still they were watering it down.

Through the dim light, the bar haze and the slight fog from the alcohol, Sanji could see them at the other end of the bar. They were sitting side by side, not looking at each other but still perfectly coordinated. Drink, glass down, Nami-san pours, drink, down, shithead pours, on and on. He thought they might be on their fourth bottle by now. There was a clear space around them, as though they were encased in a bubble of hostility that no one but the occasional petrified bartender dared breach.

Fuck. Even if he had wanted to - not that he did - Sanji couldn't have entered that space. In there was the world of the angry and the jaded, a realm that Sanji didn't understand even when he was sober. The blonde had seen a lot in his life: some of it had made him bitter, some cynical, sometimes it led him to be pessimistic even as he called himself a realist. But Sanji's internal scars were nothing like those carried by the two of them. Life at the Baratie had been good to him and Zeff, in his rough way, had taken care to smooth away the worst of the anguish and terror that had come of their month of starvation on that rock. There had been no one there to care for Nami-san after her mother's murder, no one to ease her suffering during her long years with Arlong. And Zoro... the cook didn't know what had happened to that man in the past, but his scars were as deep and twisted as the navigator's. He respected them both, and loved and adored Nami-san, but that wasn't enough to blind him to the angry brands on each of their psyches. Times like now, when they sat and drank and hated the world, these times that even Luffy couldn't sooth away entirely, they became inapproachable and remote, taking themselves off to a world that Sanji didn't understand. Didn't want to understand. Could never understand.

Always an outsider. Fuck. Maybe he wanted to be there for them. It's what nakama did, right? Sanji wanted to walk over and penetrate that bubble, sit down and drink with them even if he passed out hours before they were even tipsy, just wanted to be over there. But it was as if the bubble was exuding a force, pushing everyone away but most especially pushing _him _away. _Don't come closer_, it said. _Don't dare. _It kept him rooted at this end of the bar, surrounded by hungry eyes and questioning bodies that moved closer, queried, didn't understand the answer and withdrew to watch and to speculate and to hunger once more. Always, always outside, never getting inside, never even getting _closer_ to getting inside.

Fuckers. Who needed them. He downed another highball. His sixth? His tenth? He couldn't remember, didn't care. Smiled lazily, sloppily at the gathered crowd. "What paradise," he murmured, his voice taking on a much heavier tenor than normal. The words seemed thick and warm as they slid from his tongue, so much different from the usual carol with which he greeted Nami-san and Robin-chan. Maybe if he spoke like this they'd finally accept his advances. Maybe they'd reject him utterly. "Surrounded by so many beautiful ladies."

A smile, a flutter of his eyelashes that would have made Robin-chan laugh, and the women advanced. He could smell their desire, like a rolling stench of decay. It turned his stomach and lit his nerves on fire with a bitter, hateful flame. Not ladies, and not beautiful: dogs, to beg for his pleasure and come when he told them to. Their presence was revolting, intoxicating. They came closer, three, maybe five of them - they swam together in his vision, identical in presence and purpose, their features blurred by the alcohol in his system. Three, five, twenty, it made no difference; they were replaceable, forgettable. Not worth remembering so that they needed to be forgotten later.

The first reached him. A hand on his arm, uncertain at being allowed to approach after being kept so long at bay. He ignored it, but didn't push away. Bolder, it pressed a little harder, fingers fanning out to caress him. Another hand, another woman, this time at his knee. Breasts, soft and somehow limp against his shoulder. Hands moved, fluttered, skimmed his arms and brushed his knees, settling here and there, touching. Chest, legs, hands, but never his face. They left his face alone, wouldn't try to impose that intimacy. His light touches, fingers lighting briefly on arms or wrists or hips, encouraged them, drew them closer. Their hot, hopeful fingers burned through his clothes and against his skin, like brands of retribution. You deserve this, they said, this is what you are.

Another highball. His twelfth. His fifth? Lips on his neck, just below his hairline. Ankles tangled with his own. His hand, loose, forfeited to the one that held it, dragged down the slope of a breast. Fingernails teasing up his thigh towards his groin. Heaven, surrounded by these women that clung to him, begged him with their eyes and their bodies to take them and own them. Hell, caught by these mindless fucks he couldn't respect, couldn't adore, their movements those of enemies invading his stronghold.

Something else. Hot, burning cold, a dozen needles jabbing onto the underside of his wrist. A sword? Teeth? With an effort, he forced his eyes to focus. A small white patch, too pale even for his skin. A band-aid. Nothing, insignificant, the source of a fiery, wonderful pleasure spreading up his skin lighting his blood as nothing else he could remember. His skin crawled, writhed. The touches to his arms and legs were hotter, more insistent; now they made his nerves sing as they hadn't before. It was bliss: red hot metal being dragged across his body leaving seared, angry scars behind. Sweet agony.

A voice, from a long way away, was speaking loudly in his ear. "He's coming with me." He was being steered up out of his seat and across the room by the firm guidance of something that didn't seem to exist at all. Someone. Someone was taking him. The hands were still there, reaching across his skin, touching, teasing, scalding. Not across; through, under. The hands were reaching out of the band-aid, swimming through his blood to spark and land wherever they wanted. They were touching his face, an unwanted intimacy; all reverence and respect forgotten as they clawed through his veins. No. Not allowed.

Under the direction of that single clear, ringing thought, his fingers flew to his opposite wrist, grabbing the band-aid and ripping it away. It fluttered as it fell, a dead and mocking leaf that disappeared suddenly when his eyes could no longer track it. The breeze was still leading him, insistently pushing him out the door and down the narrow steps.

The cool air was like a slap in the face and left him reeling. He was outside. When had he gotten outside? There was a door somewhere: he must have come through that. Why? Voice, movement, blurs of dark colours and sparking lights.

"...pretty one... wrist... move..."

There might have been one voice, might have been five. They blended together, suddenly loud, suddenly quiet, a discordant symphony that made no sense.

"Oi." A note like a bell, brazen and angry, a warning of death cutting through the storm from the top of a cliff. The still wind that was holding him up disappeared and Sanji sagged, helpless and disoriented, against a wall. Rough brick cut into his cheek. He could taste bile in his mouth, spiked with the alcohol from his breath. He stumbled, caught himself on the wall, stumbled again. The wall ended suddenly and he twisted, trying to get back to it, his one anchor in this strange other-world. There was noise behind him - beside him? - a rough scraping sound over a harsh, uneven beat that was familiar yet impossible to place. He caught the wall again. It felt different than before, smooth and warm and he couldn't grip it. Falling again, his feet moving, unable to catch him.

He landed, a harsh impact that jarred him. There was something smooth and gritty under his face, but it was softening, accepting him, so it didn't really matter, did it? His body didn't want to move, just wanted to stay where it was and melt, collapse in on itself. He closed his eyes, shutting out the dark, confusing world. It didn't help: suddenly everything was spinning, tilting, or maybe it was just him and he was floating in space, with no direction to judge. He spun a half turn to his right - that was his right, wasn't it? Maybe it was up - and then he was back where he started, completing the same half circuit time and again.

A crash, and he wanted to open his eyes and see what was happening, get rid of this nauseating drifting feeling, but his eyes wouldn't do it. They stayed resolutely closed, preventing him from seeing anything but the pebble a few inches from his nose. His will to fight the heaviness was draining from him rapidly and, at last, he let go. Like a river it swept him up, dragged him under, and Sanji passed out completely.


	3. Forswear

_This one's a bit shorter, I guess because I have trouble writing chapters that explain things... they end up being entirely exposition sometimes. I think this one worked out alright, just a bit on the short side. I _might _be done chapter four... I've reached a point where I could stop, or I could keep going. It's already the longest chapter... and part of me wants to keep going. I'm just mentioning it because, in the event I do keep going, you'll have to wait longer... but you'll get a longer chapter for it So, thanking you in advance, whichever way it turns out... -Adali_

* * *

**All Their Sins  
**_Forswear_

It was still dark when Zoro awoke but then, it was always night here. Just as it was eternally day at Enies Lobby, Kapila Aranya was forever shrouded in the dark hours of midnight. It was considered an island of mystery and enchantment, an exotic locale perfect for the vast array of entertainments it played host to. Just being here put Zoro on edge; he was a swordsman, and swordsmen are, for whatever reason, a superstitious and strange lot. The unending darkness of this place had boded ill from the first and already, mere hours after their arrival, his uncertain fears were coming to pass.

There was a grunt beside him, like a corpse letting go its last breath. A groan soon followed as the body realized that it wasn't dead, and would have to face the pain of being alive despite what it had gone through. "Time's it?" Sanji muttered. Aided by the light of the streetlamps filtering through the gaps in the latticed walls, Zoro could see the other man moving his hand as though try to find his head so he could cradle it. For one brief, horrifying moment, Zoro found himself wishing that the other man really had been dead and not just passed out.

"Who knows?" Zoro rumbled back. His internal clock said it was about three in the morning, but that had no meaning here, on an island that never slept. Even here - he wasn't quite sure where _here _was, but the lights of the buildings were fairly distant - he could hear the sounds of the island's tourists in their revels, a constant hum of music, shouts and applause. Somewhere out there was the dock, where Usopp, Luffy and Chopper waited (probably impatiently) on the Thousand Sunny, kept there by the deftly stacked lots that had been drawn when they landed. Those three were too innocent for this place, and the navigator's skillful hands had ensured they would not argue against the protection they were, unknowingly, placed under.

The navigator... he wondered where she was now. Probably raising hell, and charging by the minute for doing so. He hoped that was the case, anyway. If it wasn't, he'd kill whatever bastards had stopped her, and then he'd kill the bastard lying morosely beside him for getting her - them - into this situation in the first place. Just because the fuck couldn't hold his alcohol was no reason for there to be this much trouble. It was almost as if he'd gone looking for it. He probably couldn't have done a better job of fucking up even if he had.

"Where're we?" The blonde bastard's voice was a bit stronger. Crap; he was waking up, which meant now Zoro would have to deal with him, instead of just his unsightly passed-out form.

Zoro had no idea where they were, and thought that, even under the circumstances, the bastard should have known better than to ask him. "Somewhere," he answered dismissively. He really had no idea. He'd just come out of that stupid fucked-up shit hole, realized the situation, grabbed the blonde retard and legged it the hell out of there. Things like planning and location could be taken care of once he'd taken a piss, had a nap, and beaten the shit out of the idiot cook.

"Why's it so dark?" Zoro was really, really tempted to tell the fuck that it was because his eyes were still closed. But the idiot was trying to sit up, and that was not going to end well, so Zoro put aside insulting the bastard until a time when it would mean something and instead grabbed the idiot by the shoulders, turning him to the side just before he was horribly, ignominiously sick all over himself.

He waited patiently for Sanji to finish, holding him carefully still above the mess of alcohol, stomach juices, and more alcohol. "Oh," Sanji said, apparently remembering how to open his eyes. "That's better." Zoro wasn't sure if he was talking about the light or his stomach, and didn't really care.

"Done then?" Being nakama meant Zoro wouldn't drop the bastard into his own vomit, no matter how pissed he was with him. It would serve him right, but it was what some petty, asshole bastard would do. As a nakama, Zoro would wait until the stupid fuck could stand on his own two legs, and then kill him properly.

The cook gave a weak nod. "Yeah... nuh..." He vomited again. It was obviously painful, and Zoro had to work to keep the man from curling up around his stomach and falling face first into the mess. Less came up this time, but it took longer and a lot more effort. Even though he remembered what it was like from his days as a bounty hunter, back before he knew his limit or could hold his liquor, Zoro watched dispassionately. Sanji deserved a bit of pain right now. If he'd been able to control himself, they wouldn't have been in this mess.

Reminding himself he'd had the same done for him, once upon a time, Zoro helped the other man sit down. Sanji leaned back against the wooden wall, obviously trying to look cool and collected despite what had happened seconds before. It was a valiant effort, Zoro would give him that, but a wasted one. The man looked like shit, but after carrying him through the turning streets of the island's city for at least an hour, Zoro probably wasn't in much better shape. He could feel the coarseness of the stumble on his chin and cheeks, the grit worked deep into his hands. He probably smelled terrible, like beer and sweat and that unidentifiable dirt that seemed to be everywhere in towns like this, like the filth of their business made solid.

The cook was watching him through narrowed eyes. "You gonna tell me what's happened?" He sounded prissy and pissed. Well, he should have been, only at himself, not Zoro. It was his own fucking fault after all. All of it.

"You gonna tell me what the fuck you thought you were doing?" Zoro retorted. _Not helpful_, a little voice in his head told him. He told it to go take it up the ass. The jerk-off had fucked up bad, and he deserved to know it.

Sanji's eyes narrowed even further, if it were possible. "Getting drunk," he snarled. "Got a problem with that?"

"Like fuck I do," Zoro growled. "Want to guess why?"

"Some bonehead reason, I'm sure." Hung-over, looking like shit and too weak to stand, and he still managed to be an annoying son of a bitch. Well, no one had ever said any of the Strawhats lacked balls - well, except the women, but that was for a different reason.

Zoro snorted, a sound like Sanji's expensive, once-elegant shirt might have made it ripped while he picked the bastard up by the collar and chucked him across the room the way he so dearly wished to. "Take a look at that scrawny wrist of yours. See that?" The blonde's expression of puzzlement at seeing the perfectly square patch of red skin was his confirmation. "You're a dumb fuck. Got yourself messed up real good, got damn near abducted. And you want to know why you're still here with me?" Zoro's smile wasn't nice at all; wasn't even a smile. He looked like an animal about to rip out its prey's throat. Sanji met his eyes, uncertain blues searching dark, angry eyes for answers, and not finding them.

"It's 'cause your precious Nami-san went and saved your sorry ass." He paused, letting this sink in before delivering the final kick to the teeth (which was only metaphorical, even if he wished it wasn't). "And now she's missing."

Even in the darkness, he could see how pale the cook had become. Good. Let him chew on that for a while. He could torture himself with his own stupid chivalry and the knowledge that it was, absolutely, all his fault. "Why didn't..."

Zoro's glare cut through the darkness, stopping him. "She followed you out, I followed her out. By the time I got there, you were passed out behind a dumpster and she was gone."

"That means she might be alright." The man sounded desperate. Obviously he didn't quite get that things were monumentally fucked up, and he was the reason. "She might have gone somewhere, and then your dumb ass got us lost..." He finished the sentence weakly, hopelessly. His head fell forward onto his knees. "Fuck."

"Damn right," Zoro growled.

The chef took a deep breath. "We have to find her. I have to save her, I..."

"Bit late for that now, isn't it?" Yeah, the bastard deserved every kick he got while he was down, but why did Zoro feel so rotten doing it? He was pretty sure it wasn't a nakama thing - he had a good handle on those, and they included kicking people who were down if it was for their own good. Sanji definitely needed a few kicks, and maybe to be jumped on by a Sea King a couple of times. Not enough to break him, no, but enough that he got it through his thick skull. Zoro wasn't sure what, exactly, it was that the man needed to get, but it was something important. He still felt like a bastard.

Sanji glared at him, and tried to stand. He couldn't quite make it, and flopped pathetically back to the floor. Zoro made no move to help him. The blonde didn't seem to expect him to; he was ignoring the swordsman completely. "I have to find her," he muttered. "I have to... have to... to apologize. I betrayed her, I let her down." Zoro never, ever wanted to hear the other man's muffled sob again. "I said I'd protect her always, and..." He was standing, finally, his fingers curling through the wooden lattice of the walls to help keep him upright.

"Damn right," Zoro muttered, standing. He ignored the angry, hopeless glare he received.

"You don't have to do anything," Sanji said, and Zoro couldn't quite place his tone, but it made something in his chest ache. He pulled the other man's arm around his shoulders and helped him stand away from the wall, ignoring Sanji's attempts to push him away.

"You're my nakama," he said, as though that explained it. He hoped it did. "And she's my friend." He pushed open the door and led them out, ignoring the uncertain, searching look the other man was giving him. This is what you did for friends.


	4. Title Censored P

_It's loooong: 4250 words, the longest I have up except for three chapters in Don't Call Me Nymphadora and the forthcoming Chapter X of Love Cook. I did go for the longer version, which added about half as much again, and it didn't take nearly as long as I thought it would. Just so much damn fun I'm sorry to say that, if I don't get the next chapter out in the next three days or so, you'll have to wait a couple of weeks, 'cause I'm going on vacation! And then to an industry conference... real life calls, I'm afraid. Oh yeah, and if anyone can think of a better summary, I'm all ears; I'm extremely displeased with the one this story currently has. -Adali_

* * *

**All Their Sins**  
_Pornography_

Nami didn't like to think of herself as an experienced hostage, per se, but she'd been in this situation enough times to have learned a thing or two. She wasn't quite sure why it kept happening to her, but she liked to think it was because she was just so damn cute, and not because the idiots thought she was the weakest of the bunch. Because she wasn't; not by a long shot, and her nakama knew it (even if Sanji would try to be a gentleman and protect her anyway). So being, if not an experienced hostage, at least familiar with her current damsel-in-distress class of situation, she didn't immediately open her eyes and start panicking upon regaining consciousness. To be fair, that would have been a more viable option if her head didn't hurt so much, since she was pretty sure that either panicking or the light that awaited beyond her eyelids would make her head explode. And that wouldn't help _anything_.

Instead, she set her reawakening mind to what her other senses told her. Ears: no one else in the room, and it _was _a room, because unless you went somewhere expensive with nice, thick walls, you could always hear the sounds of tourists at their revels. Nose: somewhere clean, more than likely, or at least there was nothing obscenely biological present. Taste: not helpful, but judging by the gummy feel in her mouth, she'd probably been drugged. Touch: she'd been trying to avoid thinking about this one, because it was just so glaringly, unavoidably obvious that she was naked and her hands and feet were tied. This really took the whole damsel-in-distress thing to a new level. Just perfect.

Oh, wait, it got better: she was blindfolded, too. Nami, ever the optimist, realized this meant she could open her eyes without her risking her head exploding. Finally, some good news. As soon as she got out of this she was going to make sure someone had a very, very bad day.

Her eyes didn't want to open. The lids felt heavy, the lashes gummy and stuck together. The pressure from the blindfold wasn't helping either. Nothing for it, then: time for a spectacular suicide via exploding head. With some bitterness, Nami realized there was probably still traces of the drug in her system, affecting her thinking. Someone was going to pay very dearly for all this.

It took some doing, but she managed to catch the edge of the blindfold between her knees and forehead and, slowly and somewhat painfully, drag it up away from her eyes. It still limited her field of vision - she'd have to untie it to get it properly off - but now she had a better idea of her surroundings.

She was in a room, big enough for a large four-poster bed and a small sitting area with a couch and a squishy armchair. Many girls would probably have wasted time wondering why they were tied up in a moderately expensive hotel room; Nami just groaned. Fucking hell. This could not be happening. She'd bet every last orange tree that there was no window behind those heavy velvet curtains, and that any clothes in the large, dark-wood closet weren't fit to be worn in public, even by the standards of someone like that crazy nut ball Miss Doublefinger. Well, maybe by her standards. But not by anyone else's.

She should have let Sanji be taken. The bastard would have been in heaven here... or the deepest depths of hell, but right now she was okay with that. There were going to be _words _when she made it back to the Thousand Sunny. And probably the sort of violence that, if witnessed by the marines, was going to get her bounty raised to match Luffy's.

There was the soft snick of a lock - heavy bolt, between six and eight tumblers, well-oiled, her thief's ears said - and the door swung open. The woman who entered, carefully locking the door behind her before tucking the keys into her pocket, was not the sort of person Nami had envisioned as the mastermind behind her abduction. Considering the grunts and woman of questionable looks and fighting ability Nami had dealt with last night, she'd been picturing someone a little more... _sleazy _was the word that came to mind. This woman looked like someone's grandmother, the kind that baked pies and pinched cheeks and offered sweeties even after their grandchildren were too old for them.

"Awake now, dearie? And how are we feeling?"

_Like shit, thanks_, was what Nami wanted to say. "I've been better."

"Of course, poppet, haven't we all. Now, now, let's take a look at you." Firm, gentle hands under Nami's chin drew her up to her knees. The little old woman looked her over with the air of an experienced buyer examining a horse on the auction block. Nami resolutely kept her eyes ahead and the blush out of her cheeks as the woman poked at her, testing her breasts, stomach, thighs and ass. It was mortifying but, at the same time, not as bad as it might have been if the woman hadn't been so business-like. It was like being seen naked by Chopper as he normally was, and Chopper when he was in doctor-mode. The didn't stop Nami feeling that she was being mentally graded and assigned a price.

After what seemed a long time - it was probably only a minute, but Nami's knees were aching - the woman let her go. Nami sank to a more comfortable position, but kept her eyes on the woman, trying to gauge her situation by what she saw in those eyes. It was surprisingly difficult: the old woman hid her thoughts behind a practiced veneer of brusque efficiency and kindness. An interesting - and dangerous - person.

"No need to look so hostile, ducky. This is a good place you've come to." The woman had produced a notebook out of a pocket, and was absently patting various pockets as she tried to find a pen.

"Then I'd like to go back to the bad place I came from," Nami said, adding a belated, "please."

The old woman gave her a sharp look. "There's few so lucky as you, dearie. The master treats his good-quality pieces well. It's more than most girls get. You should be grateful."

"I was fine on my own." Somehow, Nami felt that the woman thought she'd come to Kapila Aranya looking for this sort of work. True, the island had a reputation as a destination for young runaways, most of whom soon disappeared, but Nami had never thought she'd be mistaken for one of them. She wasn't about to prove herself otherwise and admit to being a bounty-head, though: she knew these sorts of people, and she'd be handed in to the marines for the money without a second thought. Her chances of escape - and revenge - were considerably better if she worked the situation from this angle.

The woman hummed her disbelief. "For a time, ducky, I don't doubt that. You did quite a number on the ones who pick you up. Poor dears, Yaza's face will probably stay swollen all week." She clucked as though it were a regrettable thing, but not something to be concerned over. "But sooner or later you'd fall down, and you'd not be so lucky in the ones who picked you up." She'd found her pen, and was scribbling industriously in her notebook. "Count yourself lucky, dearie."

"So, how much am I worth?" Nami asked casually. She'd already done a mental tally in her head; it didn't matter that she didn't plan on being used like this, she wasn't going to put up with being under-valued.

The woman looked sharply at her, and seemed to be assessing, reevaluating. "You're a sharp one, ducky. Careful now." She hummed a bit. "Intelligent, a nine in looks - don't give me that look, poppet, you know as well as I do you're too striking to be conventionally beautiful - feisty, nice poise, with good meat that will last, if you take care of yourself. Experienced?" Nami just gave her a look. "Of course." The old woman's voice was dry. "How are you with knots?"

"First class." Her knots would never come undone, not like the ones around her wrists which she'd already succeeded in undoing. Anyone who tied knots like that at sea would get their crew killed the first time a storm blew up. She kept her hands behind her, massaging blood back into them before setting to work on the binds on her ankles.

The old woman gave her a sly little smile. "Tell me, poppet, how much do you think you're worth."

"Hundred thousand a night," Nami returned promptly.

The woman seemed to find this funny, for some reason. "My, we're well-informed, aren't we, ducky?" Nami decided she had been right to think this sweet-looking granny was dangerous. She leaned a bit closer, fixing Nami with a look that wasn't at all sweet. "But aren't you overestimating yourself, dearie? That pride will get you in trouble one of these days."

"I'm _very _good at what I do," Nami drawled, closing her hand around the keys she had just stolen from the woman's pocket. She smiled her best, most innocent 'who me?' smile, the very same one she had once worn while swindling gangsters and cracking safes. She was, indeed, very good at what she did, but it wasn't quite the same thing the old woman had in mind. Although she would probably be pretty good at that, too, if she felt like trying.

She was smacked lightly on the forehead with the closed notebook: a warning against being presumptuous about her worth. "You'll go for seventy thousand, poppet." She straightened, her old spine obviously giving her difficulty in bending over for any length of time. "Be a good girl, now; I'm going to get my camera, and we'll do some promotional pictures of you. Perhaps in two or three years you will be worth a hundred." She stopped at the door and started patting her pockets, looking for her keys.

"In a few years I'll be worth millions," Nami said, her voice silk over steel. Let this old witch know that she would not be intimidated. Besides, the woman didn't know it, but Nami was worth millions right now - sixteen of them, to be exact, and no one who saw her bounty poster would doubt it. "You'll need these if you want to get out." She smiled and stood, holding the keys up and giving them a merry little jingle. It wasn't often, but sometimes she regretted becoming a pirate, just because moments like these were so few and far between. But oh, weren't they so much sweeter now, when she was duping shibukai and gods, not just fourth-rate pirates.

"You..."

Nami gave her a condescending smile. "Bring your camera, if you like, but I want food." Her smile grew just a little bit, calm and condescending, but inside her something ached. She hadn't felt it while she was discussing her 'merits', not while she was bartering over her worth but now, now that she was ransoming this just for a plate of food, she felt like a whore.

"You know you can't leave this room." The woman had regained her equilibrium with frightening speed. Dangerous, to be sure - in other circumstances, they might have gotten along well. Here and now, she was a formidable opponent at a time when Nami would rather just waste a few incompetents and have done.

It was true, but Nami wasn't about to admit that her bluff had been called. "Look, lady - what's your name, anyway?"

"You may call me Yasue-mama." One of the managers, then, with an honorific like that. She'd said it like she was announcing herself to be the queen of the world; perhaps, in this place, it wasn't so far different. Nami knew she was in desperately over her head, but that only added to the thrill of the game. And once the chips were out, Nami never lost.

"Right. Yasue-mama: I could kill you - yes, I know I don't have a weapon, but I could manage, I promise - and I know you have guards but... I think my chances are pretty good, ne?" There was a legend on the Grand Line about a woman so beautiful her smile launched a thousand ships; Nami's could have bankrupted that many. "Or you can bring me something decent to eat."

The old woman was smiling in a way that Nami didn't trust at all. "Perhaps seventy thousand is a bit low for you after all, ducky. We'll see what the master has to say. I dare say he'll be _very _interested in you after this." It sounded like a threat.

"Yasue-mama," Nami said firmly, desperately snatching back control of the conversation. "The camera and the food. Then we'll talk."

With a sad little click of her tongue, Yasue-mama was back to pretending to be a sweet and innocent granny. "You'll have to let me out, dearie. These old bones can't walk through walls, you know."

Nami moved over to the door, careful to keep several feet between herself and Yasue-mama as she did. The woman looked old and frail, but anyone who lived for long in this sort of environment probably survived for a reason. She didn't doubt Yasue-mama was more capable than she let on, much as Nami herself was. She locked the door behind her, for all the good it would likely do. If someone was going to come in and deal with her after that little demonstration, they'd either have a key or wouldn't need one.

A quick search of the room proved her expectations correct. There was no window behind the drapes to escape through, nothing that could be used as a weapon, not even anything to wear that wouldn't attract as much attention as her nakedness. Unfortunate, but not surprising. She chose a spot where she had a good view of the room, but wouldn't be immediately noticeable from the door, and settled down to wait. She didn't think Yasue-mama would send someone else to take care of her, but she might be overestimating the woman.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door. A moment later Nami heard the lock slip open, and Yasue-mama's voice on the other side of the door giving instructions to someone. The door opened slightly to admit a large bowl of fried rice followed, after a moment, by Yasue-mama. Nami would have bet the woman knew exactly where she was without having to look 'round.

The bowl was placed on the wide coffee table where it sat and steamed gently. Nami felt her stomach tighten in expectation, but schooled her features to blankness as she faced Yasue-mama. The old woman probably knew what was going through her head just fine without having to read it from her face. Yasue-mama held up the camera. "Do a nice job on these pictures, and you can eat before it goes cold, alright, poppet?" Bitch.

"What kind do you need?" Fuck; she hadn't meant to sound so petulant, but with the food sitting there, tempting and getting wastefully cold, she couldn't entirely erase the bitter, unhappy edge. It wouldn't surprise her if Yasue-mama deliberately kept her away from it until it was completely cold, too: there was something in the woman that reminded Nami of herself, as if she might have grown into a woman like Yasue-mama if her situation had been different. That didn't mean she sympathized with the woman, only that she had an idea of what she was capable of.

A perfect model of efficiency - and when had this situation lost its edge and become mundane? - Yasue-mama directed Nami to the chair. "Portraits first, poppet. Smile for me... now a pout... over the shoulder, both those expressions again... give me something sexy... no, ducky, that's feral, I said sexy... close enough, I suppose, but you'll need to work on that..." With an inward sigh, Nami cast a wistful look at the fried rice. There was definitely less steam now. "That one was lovely, poppet. A few more like that." Resigned, the unwilling model distanced herself from the situation, allowing mind to roam to all the lovely dishes Sanji-kun had made for her that she'd never properly appreciated until now. Would the situation now be any different if she'd ever said a proper 'thank-you'?

"On the bed, dearie. Muss the covers, would you, there's a love. These old bones can't move so fast anymore, so they can't. Now, I'm going to give you this sheet, and you're going to drape it across your stomach a little... more breast, less hip, ducky, that's right." The cloth Yasue-mama had given her was cool against her skin, the smoothness of silk and the slight edge of a poorly woven sample. Not expensive, but who would know if from just looking at the pictures? Well, she might, because she had an eye for such things, but no one would be looking at these pictures to admire the too-small, too-transparent sheet.

Her mind was drifting again. If she'd said thank-you sincerely to Sanji even once more than she had, he might have been more sure of himself, might not have needed the cheap reassurance of those drunk women in the bar. She'd always known he was delicate in ways that the others weren't, that he craved approval and acceptance just as much as Usopp and Chopper. She wouldn't have lost anything by giving it to him. So why hadn't she? The answer was immediately obvious, but not pleasant: she'd been too self-centered to see what her nakama had needed, to self-absorbed to give it to him.

"Pick out one of the outfits in the closet, won't you ducky?" Nami hardly heard the question, simply moved to obey with her mind still miles away.

Sanji had needed her as a nakama and, as a nakama, she'd failed him. She wondered if that wasn't part of the reason she'd followed him out when she'd seen him being led by that woman. More likely, it had been simple instinct to protect her crewmate and nothing to do with the heavy, lingering guilt she felt at driving him to that behavior in the first place. It had been so fun, in the beginning, to watch him twitter and coo, flittering around her and adoring her. It had made her smile; made her laugh, even. At some point, and she wasn't sure when but she thought it was about the time they made it onto the Grand Line - about the time she was no longer the only woman on the ship - it had turned into something cruel. She'd lavished in the attention, giving nothing back, but stepping down smartly on him any time he tried to give attention to another woman.

The outfit was black leather, stiff and shiny. Her fingers did up the vast, complicated array of buckles and straps, pulled the fishnet onto her arms and legs and neck, all without her noticing. As though from a great distance, she knew the outfit was uncomfortable, chafing and awkward in all her most private areas. It had been made for a smaller woman, she thought - about the same height, but without her breasts and hips, and perhaps a thicker waist. She didn't want to think how many girls had put this outfit on - how many had taken it off - before her.

She'd been especially vicious if she thought the other woman might return his attentions, she remembered. Those first days after Vivi joined them on the Merry, she'd been about ready to murder either or both of them if one so much as glanced at the other. She and Vivi had grown close and ended their time together as good friends, but she had never quite gotten over the thought that Vivi might once have tried to steal her toy. Perhaps she'd done so much, worked so hard for her friend in atonement for that. She'd never atoned for what she'd done to Sanji, had continued to treat him as a possession.

The next outfit was better, if only because it was less constricting. There wasn't much to it, just some ribbons and... sweet fuck, it was all ribbons. How had she put this thing on without noticing? She ought to have felt like a birthday present, wrapped in so many yards of wide, dark blue ribbon and missing only a bow on her head to make the package complete; instead, she just felt exposed and uncertain. She'd wrapped herself artfully, and left perfect, enticing tendrils to flow around her, but for once she could only be horrified at the perfection her talented hands had wrought.

Yasue-mama chuckled. "Seventy was too low indeed." Nami felt sick. "Now dearie, stand just in front of the curtains, that's right. Arms behind your head. Bust out. Bust out, I said." She snapped a few pictures. The fried rice couldn't _not _be cold by now, Nami realized with a sinking feeling. She was so hungry, though, that anything would likely taste amazing. "Last one, poppet. Think of the sexiest thing you can."

Because it was the last one - and even if it wasn't going to get any colder, she wanted her rice _now_, and Yasue-mama wouldn't let her have it until this last shot was perfect - Nami tried. She tried to think of handsome men, naked or in swim suits, lounging on beaches or beside pools. A few of those Galley-la shipwrights had been decent, and they'd given her lots of time to look when they'd come to visit at the pool and do some looking of their own. It wasn't working. Her mind kept returning to yesterday - was is only yesterday? - just before they'd docked. In her mind she saw Sanji and Zoro sparring on the lawn of the Thousand Sunny, lit by the rosy light of sunset as they approached the night island. They were shirtless and sweaty, streaks of dirt and blood like war paint slashed across their chests and arms. Though it was only in her imagination, standing with her eyes closed in that cell-like room Nami could almost taste them: the slick salt of their sweat, the sharp metallic blood and the heady, heavy taste that was unique to each of them. Her ears seemed filled with the grunts and bitten off oaths as they struggled, fought for dominance.

Her eyes snapped open. No; she wouldn't think of that, wouldn't think of _them. _Not here, not now, not ever while she was in this place. They were her nakama and just because she seemed to have gone a bit crazy was no reason for her to start thinking like that. With a horrible sinking feeling, she realized she already had, and that Yasue-mama was humming happily to herself as she packed up her camera.

"That final shot was wonderful, poppet. A bit more of that and a hundred thousand won't be unreasonable." Those kindly-meant words were like a knife to Nami's heart, destroying the last of her hope that she hadn't just been turned on by the memory of her nakama and their violence.

Silently, she knelt by the coffee table to eat her hard-won prize, only to find that there were no chopsticks. Deliberately letting it go cold, and not giving her anything to eat with either? It was beyond the limits of normal cruelty.

"Why do you need shots like that, anyway?" she demanded, the anger and bitterness at this final injustice easily discernable in her voice. She didn't care how she sounded anymore, not when she was so close to breaking. A little more and she'd lose it, smash the white pottery of the bowl and use the shards to cut Yasue-mama's throat and steal back her freedom. "Fancy place like this."

Yasue-mama paused at the door. "I'll be needing the keys, poppet. And we aren't just high-class here: Shang-tu caters to all kinds of entertainments. Pictures of the high quality girls bring in a bit of money from those who can't afford the real thing." _Anything for another belli, huh? _Nami thought. She wondered when she'd stopped acting that way herself; under Arlong, it had been the norm but, at some point, she had forgotten it in favor of other things. Treasure was still important, but it wasn't the only thing.

Suddenly angry - finally, after all she'd put up with - Nami stormed over to the door and threw it open. She was about to storm through it and just get the fuck out of here, guards and ribbons for clothes be damned, but the doorway was blocked by a young man. He probably worked here too, a server of food and probably sometimes other things - he had the face for it - but Nami's full attention was riveted on the tray in his hands. A fresh, hot bowl of fried rice - this time with meat - was there, with a teapot, mug, and chopsticks. Nami blinked, then looked uncertainly at Yasue-mama, who smiled softly.

"Eat up, poppet. Best take care of yourself if you want to be worth millions."


	5. Title Censored H

Any attempt at political correctness I made before this point? Gone. I hardly think it needs to be said that I don't endorse any of what happens in this story, but there it is anyway. Just in case, you know, someone missed all the warnings I've given up to this point.

Well, I'm back, and also finally back into a writing frame of mind, having spent two full days doing nothing but sleeping and eating (staying out at bars until three in the morning in a time zone two removed from my own - ie, until it feels like five - for several days in a row and then going and doing intellectual stuff early in the morning... far more fun than that makes it sounds, actually, but still...), a day as a zombie, and another two days going 'oh noes!' to everything has finally brought me to a point where I can be productive. And then this chapter ran away on me... /sigh/ By the way, I hate writing drunk people. It offends my sense of proper language, and therefore I beg your indulgence in my poor attempt. Not proof-read: will try to stealth-edit. -Adali

* * *

**All Their Sins**  
_Homosexuality_

It was raining out this morning - afternoon? He was sure the shithead knew, but for some reason the man wasn't saying. It was a cold, angry rain, each drop like a needle on his cheeks. He wanted to think of it as a punishment for not only failing to protect the navigator, but for putting her in danger too; instead, it only felt like a chastisement for not listening to her and bringing a rain coat. She had said it would rain before their night out drinking was through but, like the fool he was, he had ignored her words.

Beside him, the shithead grunted and hunched his shoulders a little more. Their white shirts shone in the orange light of the street lamps, pure beacons surrounded by the dark clothes of the other people that walked these streets. He wondered what they looked like to those dark, huddled shapes. Did they seem like strangers, out of place and awkward, the white a mark of naivety and innocence, of weakness? Or, drenched in rain and the blood from a half dozen scraps since they had begun their quest, did they walk these streets like avenging angels, come to deliver retribution and punishment? He glanced at the man beside him. Zoro's shirt was thin from too many washings, and torn from some long-ago battle; new bloodstains crossed and mingled with old, visible memories of opponents that the swordsman had forgotten before their blood had a chance to dry. With his clenched jaw and angry, weary eyes, he looked like a god of war. Walking with Zoro, no one could appear innocent and naive, but the man's ragged appearance didn't lend itself to angelic imagery either.

"Oi. Stop spacing out on me." Sanji snapped his attention back to the present. They'd been at this for hours, traveling the dark, twisted streets of Kapila Aranya, stopping at every likely-looking bar and gambling house to ask after a young red-headed woman. Tempers had frayed to nothing quickly, and fights broke out at the least provocation until it seemed that their search was only a matter of walking the few steps from one brawl to the next. There had yet to be an actual fight - a small blessing, since Zoro had left his swords back at the ship - but the scraps slowed them down. It would have been enough to try Sanji's temper, if he hadn't lost it long ago.

And he was out of cigarettes. To someone who didn't know Sanji, this would have seemed like the least of his worries right now, when he was out in the darkness, more than likely lost, searching desperately for his missing nakama; but someone who didn't know Sanji wouldn't realize quite how short his temper was, and that his cigarettes were the only thing that kept him human under stress. "Fuck you," he snarled, glaring, not at the man to whom the words were directed, but at a scarred, hulking bruiser who had dared to walk too close. The man looked like he was about to stop and pick a fight, but obviously thought better of it and kept walking. Sanji found himself feeling oddly disappointed.

Then he realized why the man had avoided the fight. He'd become so used to Zoro these past months - was it really less than a year since they had set out? He couldn't be sure anymore - that he no longer paid much attention to the man. He knew the shithead was dumb, green-haired and annoying, and lately that was all he saw. But somehow, right now, the man walking beside him seemed like a stranger, and Sanji found himself noticing things he hadn't before. Zoro was well-muscled: he always had been, but since when had he added enough muscle density that, though he was hardly bigger than Sanji himself, he looked like he could pick up a warship and throw it? He was lean, too, with a hollowness in his cheeks that suggested even with the enormous portions he ate at every meal, he was still burning more energy than he was taking in. And he was handsome, in the dangerous, predatory way a tiger could be called beautiful. It wasn't just his confidence in himself, which drew the eyes to him: he had fine, regular features that were eye-catching on their own.

All this Sanji noticed in a moment. What caught his attention and drew it away from all other considerations was the part of Zoro that the bruiser had seen but Sanji, somehow, always failed to notice: the man's killer aura. Even walking down the street, his swords set aside and his clothes casual, Zoro gave the impression of a man a heartbeat away from viciously, coldly ripping your heart out with his bare hand. It reminded Sanji of the feeling he had got from some of the CP9 crew - that pigeon bastard Lucci, in particular, but it was bloodthirsty and vengeful in a way that Lucci's aura had never been. The CP9 had been paid killers, brutally efficient and callous to killing but still, ultimately, just doing their jobs and fighting for something they believed. There was no belief, no conviction in Zoro, only raw rage and hunger, a drive to kill and dominate. It hit Sanji like an enormous wave, crashing down and making his knees weak so that he almost stumbled. How could he have not seen this before? The people around them all noticed it in an instant, and walked so as to give the pair of them a wide berth.

Unaccountably annoyed with the man beside him, Sanji stomped through the night in silence until they reached the next likely-looking door. Above them, bright lights in red and yellow named the gambling den after something exciting and exotic, just like every other place before it. Damnable businesses, he thought, letting Zoro open the door so he wouldn't be tempted to kick it in.

The bright-eyed old man behind that greeted them in the atrium looked them over with practiced ease. Whatever he saw - and Sanji was sure it was a lot - was not enough for him to call forth the two hulking bruisers that lurked on either side of the door but the tightness around his mouth said it was a close thing. "How can I help you gentlemen?"

"We're looking for someone," Sanji said, his eyes scanning for a rack of cigarettes, finding none.

The man unconsciously tapped a finger on the counter, obviously sensing that these customers weren't going to bring in much money. "May I inquire as to whom this person is?"

"A beautiful woman," Sanji told him, forgetting, in his irritation at the continuing lack of cigarettes, that this was not the most helpful description.

" Orange hair; about so tall." The swordsman made even his gesture indicating Nami-san's height look like a challenge. The old man didn't rise to it, though; just smiled slightly and inclined his head.

"We have one or two young ladies inside who fit your description." He hesitated, obviously waiting for them to pay some sort of cover charge to enter the gambling house. Zoro took that moment's hesitation to stride past him, heavy boots clunking on the faux-marble floor tiles. The doorman's eyes widened, then narrowed, and he jerked his head in the direction Zoro had gone. As one, the bouncers stepped forward to go after the green-haired man.

Sanji, torn between ignoring the bouncer and following the swordsman, and kicking the shit out of the man on principle, hesitated. His eyes searched the doorman's. "Got any cigarettes?"

The man's hand twitched under the counter; a sure tell. "No," he said, bland eyes meeting Sanji's in an overt challenge. "No fags here."

Later, Sanji couldn't have said which set him off: the lack of smokes or the not-so-subtle insult. Then again, later, Sanji wouldn't care which it had been. Whatever it was, even as the words fell from the old man's dried lips, Sanji's heel connected with the counter top, driving through to the floor. Polished wood cracked and broke, exploding into two piles of rubble out of which spilled a few broken boxes of cigarettes. Sanji didn't even look at them. "Fuck you all," he snarled, his foot lashing out a second, third, fourth time: to a chest, face, groin. The doorman and bouncers collapsed, their only sound reminiscent of dropped bags of flour.

With a growl - if the shithead had gotten himself lost _inside _the gambling house, Sanji was going to break his sorry, rock-filled head - the chef stomped into the main room of the casino.

Past the doorway was a room almost identical to every other gambling house they'd visited tonight. Heavily made-up women in tasteless dresses mingled among men in tacky sports coats; the air was heavy with cheap smoke and the bitter smell of alcohol; the jingle of slot machines and the rattle of roulette balls broke through the cacophony of voices. In that moment, as he stepped into the room, Sanji had a dark epiphany. His beautiful, brilliant Nami-san did not belong in this dark, bitter world; would never allow herself to be misled by the cheap, false hope of riches offered here. No, one day the sweet, innocent Nami-san would own a hundred, a thousand of these places, and with them the soul of every person who walked through their doors. Just a little, the illusion cracked.

"Hey gorgeous," an unseen woman purred, dragging unnoticed fingers down his arm. Sanji walked on, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of spiky green hair, the flash of golden ear pendants, a vicious, killing aura; searching for the soft glow of tangerine locks, a bright laugh, a sensation of joyous triumph. In the dim light, a flash of orange caught his eye, back in a corner between the bar and the poker table. His clever Nami-san had always been good at cards: only Robin had ever beaten her, and then rarely.

He pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring the grunts and dirty looks. The orange flash was moving away from him, sliding easily through the crowds. Not escaping, simply drifting comfortably with no awareness of his approach. He caught his foot on the leg of someone's chair as they stood up from a table. Cursing, he regained his balance and kept walking, ignoring the frowns of the people around him and not noticing the stares as others noticed the mangled chair leg.

Ahead, the crowd parted, offering him a brief look at his quarry. He stopped, scowling, and wished the idiot marimo-head was nearby so he could kick the man for... for something. If the stupid fuck would just show up, Sanji could kick him, which would lead to a very therapeutic and much needed fight which would bring this bloody place down around their ears like so much rubble and good fucking riddance.

The orange he had spotted and followed, like a will-o-th'-wisp, was not the gentle tangerine of his lovely Nami-san's hair but a harsh, unnatural shade that could only come from a cheap bottle of dye. The woman - ten years too old and thirty pounds too heavy to be Nami-san - wore a short black dress that screamed 'pirate' almost as loud as it did 'whore'. On her bare shoulder, scrawled in some sort of blue body-paint, was a swirling four-petal flower.

Although - or perhaps because - he had all but grown up in a loud, bustling kitchen and since spent nearly a year surrounded by the roaring of battle and the sea, Sanji's hearing was unnaturally acute: he could hear the creak of the refrigerator door as Luffy tried to pilfer food from the other end of the ship through a howling gale, and the din of the gambling house did nothing to hide the woman's conversation with the table of men she'd stopped at.

"Look out," one of the men called drunkenly, his voice far louder than necessary. "It's Dorobo Neko Nami! Come to steal our hearts, sweetheart?" Sanji wanted to murder the man where he sat.

"Ah, would I steal from my darling crewmates?" the fake Nami-san asked, depositing herself in the man's lap. "Tell me, aren't you Cyborg Franky? Give us a kiss, Franky." She giggled, and 'Franky' obliged, leaving a sloppy, wet mark on her cheek. The man had large forearms, but there the resemblance to the shipwright ended: he also had large biceps, a large neck, and a large waist. To Sanji's eyes, he looked more like that stupid bastard Wapol, or perhaps an over-inflated balloon, than the blue-haired cyborg.

"And you..." the woman leaned across the table and laid a finger suggestively on a second man's lips. "I'd recognize that nose anywhere. You can't hide yourself from me, Sogeking. I bet you always shoot true." Eyes wide, the beak-nosed man could only nod assent to her ridiculous claim.

Finally, the orange-haired monster seemed to feel Sanji's eyes on her. She looked up to meet his gaze and, seeing him, her small, watery eyes sparkled. "And Black-"

A blur of movement and a crash cut her off in the middle of - unknowingly - naming him truly. The table she and the men had been gathered around had been reduced to a pile of matchsticks, in the middle of which lay a groaning man - skinny, black haired, and very definitely unconscious. "Gang's all here," growled a voice that Sanji had been hoping to hear for what seemed like ages - if only so he could kick its owner through a wall. Fifteen feet away, in the middle of a rapidly clearing space, stood Zoro. Behind him stood a morbidly thin woman with black hair, clutching a stuffed moose to her chest as though it would protect her.

Part of Sanji wanted to beat the shithead until he couldn't see straight for terrorizing a woman, as he so obviously just had. Part of him wanted to kick the woman's sorry, scrawny ass for desecrating the sacred image of his Robin-chan. Most of him really, desperately wanted a smoke, and all else could go fuck itself.

Though his bandana remained tied about his arm, Zoro's face had taken on the deep, shadowing darkness that had earned him the nickname 'demon'. In the dim light of the bar, his eyes glowed with a fierce golden light, as though reflecting - or containing - the fires of hell. Deep within him, Sanji felt something angry and primal stir. Fuck; he needed a cigarette _now_.

If he'd been in a light-hearted mood, there were any number of quips Sanji could have made. Had he been in a shitty mood, there were a fair few more things he could have said. Sanji was not in a shitty mood: he had passed that to the point of being two heartbeats away from killing everyone in sight. He turned and walked out the door, Zoro matching him thoughtlessly.

Sanji didn't notice passing through the silent crowd in the casino, the shocked patrons edging back to give the pair of them a clear aisle to walk through. The destroyed atrium registered only as a blur of light, and the muffled cries of the new bouncers as they were simultaneously struck with blows like lightning - one with a punch, one with a kick, both to the head - not at all. He came back to himself walking through a harsh, cold rain, the gambling house lost somewhere in the distance behind them. "Fuck." The man beside him just grunted.

"Got a problem or something?" Sanji snarled, taking immediate offense to the perfect Zoro-ness of the man's non-reply. He grabbed the other man by the front of his shirt and slammed him into a brick wall, the preservation of his chef's hands forgotten. The swordsman didn't reply, didn't snarl, didn't so much as glare at him: only stared, his eyes slightly narrowed. Sanji stared back, fighting the swordsman and the return of that primal, angry _something _with equal force.

"Hey..." A drunken shout broke through the tension between them, shattering it before Sanji could even understand where it had come from. "Did'ja just get off werk?" Three men, clutching each other in an effort to keep themselves standing, stood before the pirates, oblivious to the angry glares that drilled through them. One of them - tall, supple and blond, almost attractive despite his drunken disarray - let go of the others and wobbled across the space between them to throw his arms around Sanji's neck. "Yer cute..." he slurred. "Le' me tell you, I'm the besht... besht Black Leg in the shitty... the sit... shitty city..." He giggled into the curve of Sanji's shoulder. "Bu' yer pretty good too." He peered at Sanji with earnest, blood-shot eyes.

Sanji stood frozen, unsure what to do, letting the man cling to him because he couldn't move to shake him off. He'd been enraged to see the rough, mocking versions of his nakama; to see himself so mimicked was disturbing on a far deeper level. The blonde man was dragging a palm down his cheek; an uncoordinated attempt at a caress. "Pretty boy... pretty hair..." he murmured. A few feet away, his friends giggled between themselves, lost in their own drunken world. They were both blonde too - one strawberry, the other dye-bottle platinum - and dressed in designer knock-off suits. "Come with ush... you'll like it, I promish..."

A large, calloused hand around his bicep pulled Sanji out of his imposter's rough embrace. The drunk man fell to his knees in a puddle, staring up at Sanji and his rescuer with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Zoro growled at him, a low, feral sound that seemed to pierce through the man's drunken confusion. "I... I..." he faltered.

"Mine," Zoro growled, and kissed Sanji fiercely, his eyes locked on the kneeling man for the heartbeat it took to make his message perfectly clear. The chef, still shocked into inaction, stood still and let Zoro kiss him. It was a rough, angry kiss, possessive and demanding for all it was a simple press of lips against lips.

Finally recovering himself, Sanji snarled against the thin, unwanted lips and shoved the swordsman away. "Bastard," he snapped, his voice shaky with anger. Zoro glared right back at him.

"Even your impersonators are cheap drunks," he snapped, then turned on his heel and marched away through the rain. After a split second's hesitation, Sanji followed him. Questions, uncertainties, and retributions would have to be shelved for now, he told himself as he followed the swordsman's broad back through the downpour and the crowds. First he would find his beloved Nami-san, and then he would atone - whether for putting her in danger, or for kissing Zoro, he didn't know.


	6. Suicide and Bestiality

_This one took forever. It ended up being about 4k words, but I was stuck at 400 for what felt like ever (but was probably just over a week). It got so bad I was writing Harry Potter fics. Seriously - this is a sign of desperation. The worst part was that I knew exactly where I wanted this chapter to go, but I just couldn't get it onto the page. The next one is all planned out, too; hopefully it goes a bit smoother._

_There's a lot of commentary I want to make for this fic, especially for this and some later chapters. But since it's far too long and rambling for me to put into an author's note here, I've thrown all of them up on my LJ (link in my profile): look for the entry labeled as the All Their Sins Index, if you're interested. It's mostly a place for me to scribble thoughts about this fic. Now that that little bit of pimping's through, on to the fic! -Adali_

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**All Their Sins**  
_Bestiality and Suicide_

At the top of a long, cobbled road that ran arrow-straight down to the beach, the Atrium perched, dark and spider-like, against the darker backdrop of the tor. Shadows seemed to flow from the hill's peak, reaching like fingers across the island. On this island of eternal night, the tor and its surroundings alone remained dark and wild, all else tamed by the bright lights of the town. How the shithead had found that hut, deep in the trees near the base of the tor, Sanji couldn't begin to guess.

The rain hadn't been enough to wash the street clean, but it had turned the filth to slippery mud. Sanji picked his way carefully up the street, as afraid of slipping as he was of stepping in something that wasn't mud. A cool breeze blew up from the water, cutting through his wet shirt and leaving him shivering. He ignored his body's desperate plea for warmth, just as he ignored his aching joints and the crusted blood that caked his precious chef's hands to the elbow. He had no memory of how it had got there, couldn't even remember if it had been before or after he'd lost the shithead.

He approached the Atrium slowly, his movements graceful despite the tension that ran through him, like a harp string waiting to be plucked. He already knew he wouldn't find her in there, but there would be something. Ever since he'd seen the small, discrete sign pointing the way, Sanji had known that this was where he had to go. There was something in the Atrium that he had to see; once he'd taken care of that, and kicked the shit out of something on principle, then he could go back to his desperate, hopeless search for his nakama.

The entrance to the Atrium was marked by a glowing arch, the name picked out in lighted letters like the entrance to a carnival. He felt something dark and fearful settle into the pit of his stomach at the sight of it. Nothing good could lie beyond a sign like that. His pace didn't slow but his hand twitched, reflexively, towards the empty pocket where he normally kept his cigarettes. Any fear of the unknown he might once have had had been lost, what seemed ages ago, thanks to Luffy. Or, more accurately, thanks to traveling with Luffy. He'd learned quickly to expect nothing, and to be ready to kick anything's ass. It was almost a zen state; but still the twitch.

Whatever Sanji had been not-expecting, what he found past the foreboding lit arch wasn't it. Inside the hulking, domed structure was a world of light and life. The vast dome lay before him in a verdant display of fauna, tidy flagstone paths picking wandering routes around trees and gardens. Carefully placed, expensive lights gave the illusion of sunlight. Hidden fans created a soft breeze, the warm air carrying with it the scents of flowers, soil, and animals. Somewhere, birds were singing.

The path led him to a clear area at the center of the dome. More paths rayed out from here, creating a star with a wall-less hut at its center. In the hut was a bar, sheltered by the thatch from a rain that would never fall. A lone woman was seated at the bar, her back towards him. Sanji took the seat two down from her, close enough for conversation but not intruding. Being in this bright, beautiful place after the horrors of the night outside gave him a feeling of unreality; he moved as if in a dream.

The dark-skinned man behind the counter grunted at him, but didn't bother with words. That, at least, was familiar on this island, and restored Sanji to his senses. "Omelet, or something," he told the man. It hardly seemed to matter what he ordered, anyway: the food would be passable at best, but he was eating for sustenance, too distracted to worry about the taste. It was a far cry from his usual insistence that even basic rations taste superb.

While the cook set to work over the greasy griddle, Sanji surreptitiously studied his companion. About thirty years old, he guessed, with long brown hair tied back with a plain, serviceable ribbon. Her clothes were serviceable too, the plain, hard-wearing khakis of someone who worked in the outdoors. The top few buttons of her shirt were undone, revealing a black kerchief tied about her neck and a set of breasts that threatened to best Nami-san's. Her face was plain, but pretty, lacking Nami-san's brilliant sparkle or Robin-chan's noble dignity. Not an unattractive woman, by anyone's standards. So why did he feel no need to gush and fawn over her? He sensed none of the wrongness that had been so obvious in many of the women of this island, especially those fake Robin-chan's and Nami-san's.

With a grunt and the click of ceramic on tile, omelet was set in front of him. He muttered his thanks to the cook, and dug in, hardly tasting the vegetable and meats that had been mixed in with the egg. Some small, distant part of him absently noted that it was a fairly decent omelet, the cook's skill overcoming the obvious shortcomings of his inferior ingredients.

"Can I help you with something?" the woman said suddenly. Startled - he'd been lost in empty thought - Sanji fumbled with his fork. "It's just that you've been staring."

Sanji swallowed the mouthful he'd been chewing, wishing he had something to drink. The simple action would have given him a way to hide his nervousness, covering his face for the brief spell it would take him to figure out what the hell he was doing here. "I doubt it," he sighed, sounding far more resigned than he had intended.

"One of those, huh?" She didn't sound unsympathetic, but also gave the impression of having heard it all many times before. Sanji thought she might have been about to say more, but the arrival of another man interrupted her.

The tiny figure scuttled up to them, all nervous twitches and barely restrained motion. He wore kakis to match the woman's, though his were stained with dirt and other, less easily identified, smears. "Raksha-sama! Thank the Maidu I finally found you! There's a customer who wants to visit Hathi."

The woman - Raksha - frowned slightly. "I'll have to check on Hathi before I can allow that. I'll do that now; please make sure the customer is comfortable, and thank them for their patience." She paused. "What kind of customer?"

"A woman," the little man squeaked.

Raksha nodded as though unsurprised. Sanji was quickly getting the impression that little surprised this woman. A jerk of her head dismissed the man, then she turned to Sanji. "Care to come along? You can see some of the animals, and then we can talk about what you're looking for in the Atrium."

Caught off-guard by this sudden proposal, Sanji could only nod dumbly. Well, it was in keeping with everything that had happened since he'd seen that sign out in the street - events had conspired to push him this way, so he might as well follow and see where they led him. He finished his omelet quickly, wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, and stood to follow.

"We haven't been properly introduced," he said as they set off. "I'm..."

"A Black-leg, I know. Don't know where you lost your suit, but you lot are recognizable from a mile off." She smiled sadly. "No offense."

Deciding that, after all he'd seen tonight, it was probably best not to admit that he was _the_Black-leg, Sanji shook his head. "Nasu, I was going to say." Inside, he cringed at the name, but it had come out of his mouth before his brain had a chance to come up with a better alias. He'd had few enough nicknames in his life, and he wasn't about to introduce himself as Dartboard or Cook. At least he was well enough used to the name to answer to it without hesitation, even if his first instinct was to kick whoever was calling him through a wall. Stupid geezer and his stupid eggplant jokes.

Apparently his declaration that he wasn't a Black-leg Sanji was far more surprise than his claim to be the real thing would have been. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, and Sanji got the impression that she wasn't used to being wrong often. Her slight blush made his heart speed up a little, but then it disappeared and with it his desire to act as he normally would around a pretty lady. "I'm Raksha. I'm the head trainer here at the Atrium." The rational part of Sanji wondered why the head trainer - whatever that meant - was playing tour-guide for a nobody stranger like him; the rest just wished things would go to hell already so he could stop wondering what was about to go wrong.

With a confidence obviously born of long familiarity, Raksha led him along the twisting paths through the thick, jungle-like vegetation. She paused now and then, glancing back as though afraid Sanji would dive into the bushes and bolt. As they moved towards what Sanji thought of as the back of the dome, a smell that had been covered by the scent of flowers strengthened. "There's animals here," he muttered before he could stop himself stating what must be obvious to his companion.

She sent him a puzzled, searching look. "What did you think the Atrium was?"

"Didn't know," Sanji shrugged. "Saw the sign and thought I'd take a look." He didn't mention how it had felt right at the time, almost as though he were compelled. It would have sounded silly in any case, but here in particular... there was something about a beautiful, confident woman to whom he felt no attraction that put Sanji's hackles up. There was something very not-right here.

"Oh." He could hear the disbelief in her voice, but didn't challenge it. "But you must have wondered why it was called the Atrium."

"I figured was going for vivarium and couldn't remember the word." If not for his clenched teeth, Sanji's smile would have been flippant.

Raksha scowled briefly, obviously unsure what to make of his remark, and not trusting him. _Good_, he thought, _I don't trust her either._ "The Atrium is one of the entrances to Shang-tu." She paused, looking for some reaction to the name. Finding none, she continued, "We have a botanical garden and a menagerie." Another pause, this time gauging his interest. Sanji made his face as impassive as possible: this place had already proven to be a dead end, so the quicker he got out of here the better.

"This is it," Raksha announced after they'd walked some time in silence, and turned onto a small side path. Leaves the size of serving plates scraped against Sanji's face as he pushed through them after her, the plant stalks flexing back into place with the slightest of rustles. The dirt-packed clearing backed onto a stone wall, in which was set a heavy iron gate. A few logs and crushed bales of straw lay scattered about. "Hathi?" the trainer called.

A soft sigh answered from behind the iron gate. There was the clank of a heavy latch and the gate opened, shouldered aside by the elephant who shuffled through before turning and, with surprising delicacy, closing the gate behind it. Then it turned to face them, regarding Sanji and Raksha with one enormous, dark eye. Sanji stared back, surprised by the quiet intelligence and deep compassion he saw hidden in the enormous creature. It wasn't that he hadn't expected to find such a soul in an elephant, only that he hadn't thought to find it here, in the vile, festering hole of Kapila Aranya.

As though suddenly awakening, Sanji realized Raksha was talking to him although, hidden behind Hathi, she had not yet noticed his inattention. "She's pregnant, you know. The calf will probably be born in about two months, so we're being very cautious with her." The trainer was keeping her voice smooth and kind, as though talking to a wild animal. _She doesn't realize_, Sanji thought, meeting Hathi's gaze again. The elephant looked, if anything, bemused._Hathi understands every bloody word she says._ He found himself wondering how many times Raksha or another trainer had railed at the elephant in that same sweet tone.

"Looks like she's good to go. If it were a man, I'd be worried, but we don't generally have problems with the women." Sanji was only listening with half an ear. His main attention was focused on Hathi, who had reached out with her trunk to play with his hair. The elephant blew on it lightly, and sniffed, running her nimble trunk through the strands.

"It's not very clean," he told her, reaching up to give her trunk a stroke, "so it's not as soft as it normally is." The elephant gave his head an extra vigorous rub, as though to say she didn't mind. With a quick, deft movement, she plucked up a bundle of the discarded straw and dropped it on her own head, staring at Sanji through the dirty gold strands. He smiled.

"I think she's taken a shine to you," Raksha said. "Maybe we'll have to name the baby after you."

Sanji snorted softly. "An elephant named Chibinasu. Wouldn't the old fart just die laughing," he muttered. Hathi trumpeted her agreement to the plan.

Something Raksha had said suddenly caught up to Sanji. "What do you mean, you don't have problems with women? What kind of problems do men normally cause?" Hathi seemed a perfectly sweet, gentle creature to him, and he couldn't imagine her being any different to another person.

"It's just that they sometimes get a bit competitive, you know? The women are happy just to let her use her trunk, but the men want to prove they're as good as a bull elephant and... oh." Her eyes widened. "You didn't know."

Sanji suddenly felt that same horrible, sickening feeling he'd had the first time someone told him All Blue didn't exist. It was the feel of some small, innocent, essential part of himself being crushed. But this time, there was no Zeff to prop up his failing faith - this time the wound wouldn't heal. "You mean they..." he couldn't finish. He didn't look at Raksha for confirmation, but to Hathi. The elephant suddenly wouldn't meet his eyes. "Oh."

He stepped forward, ignoring Raksha's hand trying to grab his arm. Hathi turned her head away, refusing to look at him, her large ears flapping with emotion. Reaching out, Sanji wrapped his arms as far around the elephant's head as he could before stepping back and giving her trunk a pat. "You do what you need to, to take care of that Chibinasu," he told her. She glanced his way and he forced a smile, feeling his heart break for this beautiful, noble soul. He received a hesitant, yawning elephant smile in return.

Still numb, Sanji let Raksha lead him away from Hathi's arena. The insistent slap of leaves on his face and chest forced reality back upon him like a weight. His guard sprang back into place in an instant, his features sliding into a cool, polite mask to hide a pain like one of Zeff's strongest kicks to his stomach. Though he never caught her looking, he could feel Raksha's eyes on him, searching, seeking reactions and thoughts and motivations; trying to discover who he was. She wouldn't learn anything.

"That's your business, then." It had been wrong to imagine that, just because it was light and clean here, the Atrium was any different from the rest of Kapila Aranya. The setting was a little different, and the clientele - although not by much, perhaps - but underneath it was the same.

"You disapprove?" Raksha queried, a slight hostility in her stance. Sanji kept his face empty but for a slightly inquisitive lift of his brow. He would not give this woman a single hint as to his thoughts. "Most of our animals come from homes and private zoos where they were abused or neglected. They're safe here, and we take good care of them. And we do not _exploit _our animals." It had the sound of an old argument.

Sanji shrugged, not rising to meet her challenge. "The same as any other brothel, then."

That had apparently stuck a nerve. "Except we actually do it," Raksha snapped. She turned smartly and stalked off. Sanji sauntered in her wake, wondering at the person who had made a brief appearance through the trainer's discomfiture. The woman had views, that much was clear, and Sanji would bet his best kitchen knife they were from first-hand experience. The assessment told him nothing of what he was supposed to do here, though, so he let the thought go.

The little man from the central clearing, or another just like him, was back, gibbering quietly to Raksha. His distress was palpable, and laid over something with the scent of fanatic excitement. He caught Raksha's measuring glance, and raised an eyebrow. It was a charade that would never have worked on the women of the Strawhat crew, but Raksha didn't have the insight or intelligence of those two fair ladies. Deep within himself, far below the part that worshiped his lovely crewmates, the part of Sanji that feared that deadly intellect suspected that no one could compare to them, and was glad of it.

"They found another one," Raksha said by way of explanation. "More paperwork." She sighed, resigned and indifferent, but Sanji caught the slight quiver of her hands before she could shove them in her pockets. Another pause, another searching look. _Do you think I would break now? _Sanji asked her silently. Whatever the little man had said to her, it had shaken the trainer badly, and in a way that worried Sanji. In Raksha, he could see a woman who had been broken once; she had been put back together, but twisted, and missing something that had once made her a woman Sanji could admire, missing something that had made her human. Nami had been broken once, fallen and twisted, but her inner strength had prevailed, and she had grown to a woman whose scars accented, not marred, her beauty. Zoro, too, had been wounded, before pushing the hurt so far inside that one could almost believe the scars on his chest and legs were the deepest he had ever received.

But Raksha had not had their strength. Looking at her now, his head filled with his two beautiful, fallen-angel nakama, Sanji saw a woman who had given up long before she'd been broken. Zeff, in his rough way, had been there to ensure Sanji never fell despite staring into the pit of hell itself, that month on the island. He'd left the old geezer behind months ago, but now two bitter, grinning demons and a laughing pirate boy stood between him and the cliff's edge. For them, he would not fall. For them, he would not let anything this woman showed him destroy him. And he would find them.

"Where to next?" he asked, confident and princely and every inch Sanji the Black Leg, who had walked through the rubble of shibukai palaces and Enies Lobby with his head high, the man who had faced a god without fear. He could feel that small, still-human part of Raksha quail, but his eyes saw only a slight paling of her cheeks.

"The clinic," she said before spinning on her heel and leading him briskly though the maze of paths. _I'm only a man, Raksha, _Sanji thought. _Pray you never meet the devils that sit on my shoulders. _It occurred to him that he should probably get some sleep soon, if he was thinking like that.

The room, hidden behind a discrete wooden door, proved to be just what its name implied. A large steel table dominated the center of the room, lit by harsh lights. Drawers and glass-fronted cupboards lined the walls of the room, filled with steel instruments and bottles of varying sizes. A refrigerator hummed softly in one corner, tucked between a massive pair of filing cabinets. The steel table was covered with a white sheet, which did nothing to disguise the unmistakable shape underneath. That was a human, lying there, and unless they had practice at staying completely, utterly still, it was a dead human. Sanji felt his shoulder tighten, and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets to hide the sudden whiteness of his knuckles.

With neither delicacy nor care, only cool disinterest, Raksha pulled the sheet back, revealing a young man. He looked about twenty, though Sanji suspected he would have looked younger without the make-up that caked his face. Bright, golden hair spread in a halo around his swollen face. No one had bothered to close his eyes so they stared, sightless and slightly protrudent, as bright a blue in death as they had been in life. From the smell, he'd soiled himself as he died, fouling his otherwise immaculate suit. Only the tie was slightly out of place, pushed aside to make room for the noose that had choked the life from his pale body. Whoever had found him hadn't bothered to remove even that, and had simply cut him down and brought him here as he had been found.

Shaken, Sanji swallowed and reached unconsciously for the cigarettes that weren't there. It was as though he himself had died and now stood as a ghost staring down at his own mortal remains. Raksha was looking at him sidelong. "We get about one a month - the occasional Fire Fist, once an Alvida, but almost always Black Legs." She sighed, sounding almost genuinely regretful. "What must it be like to be him, if his impersonators can't live like that?" Her voice lowered, and Sanji sensed that she had forgotten he was here, lost in some pain of her own that had nothing to do with him or the young corpse before them. "Admired for your looks, but not understood... used..." She was fingering the silk scarf at her neck. The fabric slipped, giving Sanji a glimpse of an old, vicious scar, a faded mirror of the one that adorned the neck of the corpse on the table. _So that's her story._ Somehow, Sanji wasn't surprised. More puzzling - and more worrisome - was what had brought about the rebirth that created the creature before him, the empty, hollow woman that had guided him through this nightmare dome.

He turned his attention back to his deceased impersonator. Alike on the outside - a far greater resemblance than any of the others he'd seen - but oh, so different where it mattered. This man - this boy - no more resembled Sanji than did the grotesque sketch that adorned his wanted posters. They were both only images, someone else's idea of what Sanji might be, falling far short of who he was. "How did you survive, then?" His words cut through the background noise and Raksha's soft murmur like one of his kitchen knives through a carrot - sharply, and with a ringing, inaudible aftershock.

"The Maidu saved me, in his generous wisdom." The delivery was flat, but underneath swirled the currents of fanatical belief. Whoever, or whatever this Maidu was, he held the people of the Atrium in far greater thrall than even Enel had the people of Skypeia. Sanji didn't bother asking further; any truth there was to know about the Maidu would only be found by kicking the bastard's ass.

There was a sharp pinching in Sanji's neck, then a horrible pressure, well familiar from all his time in Chopper's care. The excitable little man had slipped up behind Sanji - and who knew how he had managed _that _- and stuck the needle in his neck. As Raksha's impassive face slipped out of focus, Sanji could only curse his fucking bad luck.


End file.
